


Letter to a Sleeping Man

by mlyn



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlyn/pseuds/mlyn
Summary: After leaving Charles Town, everything catches up to Flint and he begins to slip beneath the waves.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was aching for more between Seasons 2 and 3, to see exactly what happened in the first few days after leaving Charles Town. (It's no accident that Silver woke up in Flint's cabin, sleeping on the lockers.)
> 
> With thanks to Christy for the editing!

"Nothing happens to any man that he is not formed by nature to bear."

* * *

He'd like to think if he hadn't been distracted with leveling Charles Town to the waterline, he might have noticed earlier. It was well after the last gun had silenced and he'd retreated to the great cabin that he discovered the extent of the skirmish between Vane's men and his crew. 

He smelled the blood first, then saw the disheveled state of his map table. From the smears of blood on the floor, several bodies had been dragged out. 

"What the fuck happened here?" he yelled for anyone in earshot. 

"Sir." Billy came to the door, and he could see a few wide-eyed men behind him. "We tried to tell you, but—" 

He had no patience for excuses. "Get someone in here to clean this up. And send for Silver, I don't give a shit if he's in the middle of preparing mess." 

"Sir," Billy said slowly. "You'd better come with me." 

He whipped around at that, ready to meet a challenge, but stopped at the look in Billy's eyes. 

He looked afraid. 

  

He realized quickly that their destination was the infirmary, and it was all he could do not to rush into the tiny cabin when Billy held him back with a hand. 

"Vane's quartermaster tried to press some of our crew to restore his complement and escape the bay. Silver refused to give him the names of any willing men." 

"What happened?" he asked through gritted teeth. 

Billy swallowed jerkily. "Vane's man took an ax to his leg. The blunt side of the ax." 

Flint's stomach swooped at the mental image. He pushed past Billy into the infirmary, where Howell was cleaning up. 

Silver looked…not good. Sprawled inelegantly on the surgery table, his head lolling, his leg ending grotesquely short of where it should. The pant leg had been cut and pulled up practically to his hip, and his—the stump was covered with a fresh white bandage. It was in stark contrast against the bloody pad on the operating table. He saw Howell's assistant carry a bucket out with something sticking out of it, something like what you'd see at a butcher's stall, and he had to brace a hand on the wall to catch himself when the ship rolled. His stomach rolled after it. 

"He never gave any name," Billy said behind him. "He stalled long enough for us to free ourselves—he even slipped the keys to us in the scuffle when they dragged him off deck." 

"Is he alive?" Flint asked hoarsely, unable to look away from Silver's limp body. Surely Howell wouldn't have stitched him up if he'd died on the table. 

"I gave him a heavy dose of laudanum," Howell said. "And given the amount of pain he'll be in, we should keep him dosed for a few days more." 

"Thank you." He composed himself and met Howell's gaze. "For doing what you could to help him. Let me know if his condition worsens." 

It was all he could do for now. He returned to his cabin and called for a hand to clean up the mess. 

* * *

~~Mister Silver, I want to commend you for your actions while I was ashore.~~

_Perhaps don't start off congratulating a man who had no say in sacrificing a limb._

* * *

~~Mister Silver, allow me to extend my condolences~~

_Utterly empty platitudes._

* * *

The heavy cost of life at sea often weighed on a captain's mind, but he couldn't recall having had this feeling before. 

Howell had reported that their stores of laudanum were sufficient for a few months, and he would reduce the dosage after a couple more days. Flint had been preoccupied in the time since. He was consumed with thoughts of what he could say to Silver when he woke. 

He looked for a good quote or passage on bravery and sacrifice, but his books wouldn't yield anything with the right tone. He thought of his library in Miranda's house, that there must be something there, and— 

He braced a hand on the paneling above the bookcase and choked back the grief that threatened to overtake him. 

Miranda. Oh god, Miranda. 

* * *

~~Mister Silver, your bravery~~

_Oh certainly, remind the man that he was forcibly taken and tortured before thanking him for his service._

* * *

Flint found himself in the sick berth. Silver was restless, muttering in his sleep. 

"But…the beach…" Silver murmured mournfully. "The gold…Urca…." 

Flint stiffened and looked around, but no one else was in the cabin. He looked out in the deck and called to a sailor passing by. 

"Thorensen. Get a mate and carry Mister Silver to my cabin." 

The man nodded and dropped the lashing he was tidying around one of the guns, climbing to his feet and going off to find a helping hand. 

Silver's words had been innocent enough, but if he was talking in his drugged sleep, Flint didn't want to risk something worse being overheard. 

* * *

Howell came by his cabin later with the laudanum dosage and looked inquiringly at Flint, then at Silver. Silver was stretched out on the locker beneath the windows, pillows mounded under his head and shoulders. He was still insensate, although the muttering had ceased for the moment. 

"I thought fresh air and light would do him good," Flint said, and watched Howell evenly. 

Howell muttered something as he prepared the spoonful of laudanum. "Hold his head up, if you please, sir." 

Flint lifted Silver's head from the pillow so Howell could spoon him the tincture without it running everywhere. Howell thumbed open Silver's lips just enough to get the tip of the spoon inside, tipped the bowl, and trickled the dosage into his mouth as he swallowed reflexively. Howell repeated this several times, dosing Silver heavily. Finally, he stepped back. 

Flint laid Silver's head back on the pillow, carefully disentangling his fingers. His hair could do with a good wash. Flint would see to have a tub in the cabin by the time he woke. 

"I'll be back in the morning," Howell said only as he sealed the laudanum bottle, then left. 

Flint turned and looked at Silver on the locker, crossing his arms as he leaned against his desk. "Probably thinks I'm being womanish," he muttered under his breath. "Whereas I'm the most fucking responsible bastard on this ship." 

He studied Silver's still form. Over the last couple of days, he had kept thinking of what Billy had told him of Silver's torture. He kept visualizing the horrible moment of anticipation during the ax swing, then the gut-wrenching agony when it hit its target. He could very well imagine Silver's screams. 

There was a knock on his door, and it opened before he could respond. When he turned, he saw Vane letting himself in. 

"Making landfall in Tortuga. With whom is your account; which supplier?" 

Flint huffed out a breath at being interrupted. "Waterstone. Would it trouble you," he said, stopping Vane on his turn to the door, "To wait to be admitted when you knock on my door?" 

Vane gave him a curious look, and in the moment of silence Flint wished he'd bitten back the irritation. 

"Aren't we co-captains?" Vane rasped with a veneer of politeness. 

Flint waved a hand and turned back to the windows. 

"No, please, let us resolve this," Vane growled obsequiously. "Shall I scrape a bow before ascending to the quarterdeck, as well?" 

"You should act like you don't make your bed in the fucking pig pen," Flint snarled. 

"What the hell are you talking about?" 

"I'm talking about the way you and your men conduct yourselves." He turned back and braced his hands on his desk. "That you think you are feared throughout the West Indies, but in reality you are merely reviled. You disgust people, and soon they will learn that their fear has no cause, and sweep you out into the refuse pit." 

"Is this about what my men did on the ship?" Vane shook back his hair and crossed his arms, bracing his feet wide. His face was flushed red with anger, but he held himself composed. "Because I thought that was forgiven." 

"It was until I found out what they'd done in this cabin." Flint's voice shook, and he didn't know why. "That your quartermaster tortured one of my crew. Mutilated him. Because if that man dies," he pointed behind himself, "that's another soul on my conscience." 

"And what's one more? Who is he to you? Little large to be your cabin boy, eh?" 

"Get the FUCK OUT," Flint roared. 

Vane gave him a two-fingered salute and left, slamming the door behind him. 

Flint dropped into his chair and ground his teeth together until they squeaked. "Disgusting ass," he muttered. 

He heard John stirring behind him. No surprise that he had roused him. He looked over his shoulder. 

John looked better. His color was coming back, and he didn't look as sweaty. His whole form looked more relaxed. 

"John?" he said, rising from his chair so he could crouch by the locker. "Did I wake you?" 

John didn't answer, and didn't stir again. 

* * *

Flint was still in his cabin when night fell in Tortuga. He knew he was neglecting his duties, but Vane could handle them. He couldn't find the energy to rise from his chair. 

"If you don't eat, how can you take over the world," Miranda said in his ear, a trace of amusement in her voice. 

She'd said that so many times. He became absorbed in his occupations so often. Both he and Thomas frequently missed tea time or supper, only for Miranda to come into the study near midnight with two trays carried by servants. One memorable evening when Miranda had been away at the opera, he and Thomas had gone to the kitchen to rouse a snack, then let ardor overcome them right there on the kitchen table. 

He let the grief well up, let it choke him by the throat and blind him. He laid his head down on the desk and tried to breathe. 

_Mister Silver, I pray that you may recover because I cannot abide another loss._

* * *

They encountered a storm on the way north from Tortuga and were making no progress except to be bounced between the bulkheads. Howell sent word to the great cabin that he could not administer Silver's morning dose, busy as he was with the usual storm injuries. 

Flint sent for the bottle, saying he'd dose Silver himself. 

* * *

It was more of a challenge, doing this alone. Flint decided finally to prop Silver up against his front, sitting slightly behind him. Silver muttered as he was jostled and his eyelids fluttered. 

"There," Flint said at last. He had Silver's head on his shoulder, and could feel the small movements of Silver coming back from unconsciousness. 

"Don't," Silver said in a small voice. Flint froze. 

Silver jerked his head, but his eyes were closed. He was dreaming. A nightmare. 

Laudanum suppressed dreams, he knew; if Silver was dreaming, the dosages were wearing off and he was close to waking. 

His breathing quickened, and he whimpered. "Don't, I don't…no names." His eyelids fluttered and Flint saw the gleam of his eyes between his lashes. 

Gooseflesh rose along Flint's arms. "Hush now," he said, pressed a hand over Silver's forehead to keep his head steady as much as to attempt to soothe him. He quickly poured the laudanum while Silver twitched against him. 

Howell had sent instructions with the bottle, describing how to lessen the dose. Flint found his hand wasn't entirely steady as he brought the spoon to Silver's lips, but he got most of the tincture into his mouth. 

"There now," he said when he was done, and thumbed away a few escaped dribbles from Silver's beard and lips. 

Silver was asleep. He didn't stir again as Flint eased out from under him, cradling his head to the pillow. 

* * *

Flint had asked Miranda about children only once. 

They'd been drinking herbal tea in front of the fire while an unusually late winter storm had raged over the island. The rain lashing the windows and hissing in the fireplace had seemed a fitting background to their conversation. 

Her smile had been so incredibly sad, he'd wanted to weep before she had answered. 

"Thomas and I tried for a few years," she said softly, lightly. "As was expected. But it became harder for him, for him to perform his duty. At which point he confided in me his true passions." 

She'd gotten up for the whiskey and poured a hefty measure directly into the tea pot. 

"We came to an agreement; he could pursue his interests and I could…find my own satisfaction elsewhere." She smiled, a little rueful, as she sat back down and looked at the fire. "My nature was always more of a carnal one than any girl I knew." 

He'd watched her eyes while she continued speaking, the huge brown irises turning a deep amber in the firelight. 

"My reputation was more truthful than such gossip usually is. I confess I might have delighted in disrupting convention. But Thomas was happy, and I was happy, eventually. 

"At first I was conflicted, because I could not—I had a lover I was very enamored with. I could not control myself in the face of that temptation, but I worried that I would become with child, and what that would mean to my lover. Thomas's father would have had his suspicions as well. And so I was conflicted. 

"But after several months, it seemed clear that I was barren. I would not have a child by my lover, nor by Thomas, nor any other man I have lain with since then." 

She turned to him and he could see a tear track down her cheek, gleaming gold in the light of the fire. 

"Does that disappoint you? That I cannot give you children?" 

His heart broke. He fumbled the tiny Chinese cup onto the table before he went to her lap and laid his head there, as he had so many times since coming to the Bahamas. "Never," he choked out into the folds of her skirt. 

"Hush now. I am not sorry for it," she said, stroking his hair. "I have made my peace. Remember this. All things happen according to the universal nature." 

He recognized the quote from _Meditations._ He lifted his head and she bent, kissing his lips softly. 

He'd never had the chance that night to tell her that her fortitude put to shame every pirate of the West Indies. 

* * *

Flint found a stashed bottle among the Spanish captain's books and began pouring. He didn't light a candle when the storm clouds turned blacker with night, but sat next to the locker in darkness and drank. 

"No shame," Miranda murmured to him. He could feel her hand stroke his hair. 

He tipped his head back and emptied the cup. 

* * *

Billy brought him the news of the vote for a new quartermaster. Mr Scott stood next to him, face impassive. 

Flint looked at Scott. "You are all right with this?" 

Scott inclined his head. "I voted for Silver myself." 

"We're going to tell him when he wakes up," Billy said. He glanced at Silver on the locker, still sleeping soundly. Flint had dosed him lightly after the hands had been called to dinner. "You'll let us know?" 

"Of course," Flint said. 

* * *

The armchair he'd found was angled to face John. Flint refilled his cup from the bottle on the upturned crate, then leaned back and took a sip. After he had rolled the rum around in his mouth, he swallowed and released the words he'd had circling in his head. "Mister Silver, I have found a significant depth of respect has grown in me since taking you onto my crew." 

Some of John's hair had gotten caught in the bend of his neck. Flint tugged the curl free, laying it with its brethren on the pillow. "Words cannot express my admiration," he murmured, "For your fortitude and nobility in the face of grave danger." 

John's head rolled slightly with the motion of the ship. Flint leaned back and drank deeply, staring out at the purple night through the great windows. 

"Undoubtedly we have been through grievous trials since we met, but in hindsight I know that our partnership has strengthened us both. Perhaps my reasons are selfish, but…" He shook his head. "My only defense is that my selfish reasons are the same as yours. We are good together. So you see, you must survive this. There is too much left for us to accomplish." 

He focused on John's face, and saw his eyes moving beneath his eyelids. He was dreaming. 

Flint sighed and corked the bottle. Come the dawn, he would be sober and ready to execute a new plan.


End file.
